Waking alone, you welcome morning light, toss off warm sheets.
The dishes are all done; the door shut: No duties remain for tired feet.
You consider perusing a book, think to read the morning away.
Watch sunbeams christen the room, or write a love letter to a half-forgotten self.
Smiling at silence, the possible curls up by your head to rest, you lean into your pillow, before leaving bed —
rollover thinking:
No one requires my assistance; No one needs an intervention. I am free to do as I please —independence can dance with grace in the absence of noise:
Free to wander galleries of memory, review portraits of old friends, reminding of former connections, hanging next to sketches of remedies for worldly endeavors.
Displays sculpted by your hand, chiseled with stoney resistance, stand in the dust of unimagined effort.
Time expands as you savor gifts of the serpent’s fruit, your tongue lingers over one taste, others dissolve without force of will.
You love family especially in quiet contemplation,
thankful for independence.
You enjoy friends, think of kindness, laughter at jokes, offerings of fresh baked bread, the second glass, the unhurried good bye.
You curate such reveries in reverent wonder.
You breathe in deeply the enchanted open spaces between heart beats.
Purpose tempts silence.
You seek solid footing. No cures worked; empty bottles testify to no lasting effect.
Anxious feelings warn —
You contemplate surrender to old habits, red flags wave and beg attending.
You should do something.
But your conviction for lack of production was overturned. The judge threw out the jury’s verdict.
Released to indefinite solitude, without prejudice, subject only to seductions of conscience and stirring affection.
You are free to explore a forest of images carved from experience; note stretches of purple thistle, marvel at the wild, stubborn nature of weeds.
Ignore the siren calls to follow prescriptions, stop praying to idols made of time.
Sit by a campfire, watch dead wood collected on a morning stroll, burn away slowly —
Red to orange, blue to gray, softening into ash.
The wind pipes a perfect tune.
Pine needles waft a smell of fresh green in your direction, awakening to new interests.
Sudden tears cleanse smoke filled eyes; and you face due east as morning silence beckons peace to a rising sun.
THH
9/22/26
